


Heart of a Hero

by Anoriell_HoaH (Anoriell)



Category: Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:44:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anoriell/pseuds/Anoriell_HoaH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call it the General Crisis. A time of revolts and wars, widespread breakdown in politics, economics and society. It is the era of conflict between 'Court' and 'Country', a world-wide phenomenon resulting in the decimation of certain countries' population by some thirty percent. In such an age, how is a true hero defined? And just how does Aidan Turner fare in this somber period that is the 17th Century?</p><p>With accusations of witchcraft on every other person's lips and Puritan law worming its way into countless New England households, how does one young Irishman remain true to himself and dare to love freely without fear?</p><p>Especially knowing that homosexuality is universally punishable by the death penalty ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Worth of One, the Worth of All

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is. The universe from which I have already posted the following vignette: 'Burn - Unlawfully Tried, Legally Convicted'
> 
> It is my current writing obsession, though I am still keen on finishing other WiPs ... all the while actively working on the Tolkien Big Bang fic.
> 
> More tags will be added as characters are introduced and the story progresses. For the moment, I am trying not to spoil too many things (and so am avoiding even subtle hints). Also, the 'G' rating can be expected to move all the way up to 'E' at some point. I will switch things to reflect chapter content when needed (that includes the Archive Warning).

It was worth it. They are worth it.

_(He is worth everything.)_

And so he said as much (barring that last bit), his chin held high, almost defiantly. As if expecting his statement to be challenged. He stood with his two feet firmly planted on the ground, ever-shifting as it were. He held his arms crossed over his chest, perhaps in somewhat of a protective stance? After all, it was rather intimidating to be called upon by Him, of all beings. Not to mention a rare occurrence. He was usually made to deal with the others - those who had sent him out in the first place. He only ever reported to them. He was nobody special to be summoned so highly. It was most unnerving.

In an attempt to distract himself, he let his eyes roam freely, taking in his surroundings as he waited for a reply or comment. A dismissal, even. Anything, really. Anything but this drawn-out silence.

The room was, well, not quite a room. More like a space. A never-ending space, yet still seeming confined somehow. There were no walls to lean up against and no proper floor to bear the weight of nervous visitors all but quaking beneath their skin. Yet there was a sense of structure to the area, despite its properties clearly exceeding the known limits of three-dimensional space. It was neither dark nor alight and strangely enough, his vision suffered no strain, which made him briefly wonder if these events were not unfolding within the limitations of his imagination. What if he was dreaming? Just how long had he been here? But a few moments? Hours? Time, he realized, was irrelevant.

All of it ... it was other-worldly. (Even more so than he had gotten used to.)

It had to be a dream.

"Never doubt your own senses." A voice startled him out of his musings and he searched the room for its owner, finding no one. It was unsettling and his retort was slow in coming as a result. Too slow for the voice could be heard once more.

"You would vouch for them, then?"

Cutting straight to the matter. Yes, well. He could do that. He was malleable. Or at least, he liked to think so. One did not make it to his position without some measure of adaptability. Clearing his throat and taking a deep breath, he hoped that he didn't sound too pleading. "Give them a chance."

"I dare say they have had plenty."

He nodded, figuring that He could see the head gesture despite His lack of apparent corporeal form. "Perhaps. But we cannot give up. Not now. There is hope, still."

There was a long pause, followed by a disapproving sound. Almost like a grunt though that was highly improbable, for obvious reasons. But the thought did make him want to snicker. Instead, he settled for biting his tongue and straightening his shoulders.

"Tell me more about this hero business." There was definite curiosity behind the voice's directive. And the sudden change of subject surprised him.

"Have you not read the report?" Why was he being interrogated if He had not even read the report?

"I have read the conclusion. And your recommendations."

"Then, why ...?" He could not hide the confusion from his tone.

"I would hear the details from you." The voice brooked no argument.

"That would be," he paused for a moment, not wishing to sound uncooperative through his choice of words. "That would take some time to recount." _A long time_ , he thought to himself.

A chuckle resonated around him and he believed it to be more eerie than amusing. A feeling of dread descended upon him, clutching at his heart.

"By now you must know that time is of no consequence to me."

Yes. Yes, he knew that well enough. And what choice did he have, besides? He couldn't very well leave. Aside from not knowing where to find the exit seeing as the door had apparently disappeared, no one dared say no to Him. Even though he was tempted. He was near desperate to go back, the lure pulling at him with uncanny force.

And there was that chuckle again, quickly turning into something deeper and far more menacing as a rich laugh enveloped him, sending all his senses on high alert.

"You wish to return to them."

He bowed his head. Was it in shame? His hands now lingered at his sides, fingers clenching and unclenching. He was tense and could feel a lick of anger worming its way to the surface. Why? Why this reaction?

"Such loyalty from a mere observer."

He glanced up, and then further still. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, ever-shifting just as the floor beneath his feet, he furrowed his brow. "Did I not say they were worth it?"

His question was not met with an immediate answer, which rankled his nerves. By the time the voice was heard again, he had left soft impressions in the palms of his hands in the shape of half-moon crescents.

"What of young Turner?"

He choked on a swallow, feeling any control of the situation slowly slipping from his grasp. "What about him?"

Impossibly enough, he could feel a pair of eyes bore into him. And through him. He felt violated somehow. Which the next spoken words only served to confirm.

"You have fallen for him."

Not a question, that. More like a stated fact which he neither openly confirmed or denied. But it left him feeling somewhat vulnerable and very much like an incompetent fool. As if he had failed. And perhaps he had in a way because when he thought about Aidan, well  ...

"Who has not?" he wondered out loud, to his own chagrin.

"You know you cannot go back." Was that a hint of compassion in His tone?

He merely nodded, not trusting himself to attempt further speech just yet.

"Very well, then. We shall do this the other way."

He shifted from one foot to the other, uneasy. _The other way?_

"Have you had physical contact with most individuals found in your report?"

Physical contact? What? "M'sorry?" Whatever did He mean by that?

"A touch. Any kind of touch. It could be merely a handshake."

He allowed himself to remember and nodded once again. "Yes, for the most part."

"Very well. Then if you would be so kind as to make yourself comfortable, we will proceed."

Suddenly, the room had its own settee with cushions made of a deep red fabric, accompanied by an upholstered armchair of the same coloring. The wood was of excellent quality, he could tell. It reminded him of a certain English lord's parlor with its luxurious furnishings - of the likes he had never seen before. He hesitated, uncertain of what was expected of him.

"You need only to relax. Sleep, if you prefer. I will take care of the rest." The voice was calming. Almost soothing. He moved towards the armchair.

"I will visit your memories, along with those of the others who crossed your path during your brief stay amongst them. This method should be more thorough than any written report or verbal account, allowing me to live through every chapter of your story. Their story. Let us see how worthy of my blessing they truly are."

The chair was less comfortable than it had first appeared; maybe he should have chosen the settee. Though none of it mattered within a short while as he felt his mind slowly fall into a sluggish state, nothing but the occasional pinching (were those memories being plucked from him?) stopping it from spiraling into total numbness. He barely registered the flicker of images dancing across the back of his eyelids, else he might have recognized the young man with the solemn face as the lone figure traveled the beaten path that would eventually lead him to a crossroad.

One that would require important (irrevocable) choices.

 


	2. Of Preludes and Foreshadowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A change of scenery. A new chapter. Hopefully, a new life for Dean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

**Dean O'Gorman**

_**Newry, Northern Ireland** _

_**1690** _

 

_Save yourself._

A desperate plea all but wrenched from condemned lips. A harrowing surrender to the inevitable. A last declaration of love.

_Run._

Her words laden with urgency and her tremulous voice marked by fear had nearly compelled me into action. Though not quite. I could not bring myself to leave her side, both feet finding neither strength nor desire to shift any which way. I would not abandon her to such a fate. How could I? But then she had grasped at the fabric of my uniform, not bothering to question whose blood painted its coarse fiber, her hands, ever strong and steady, holding me there. So close. One moment had her fingers smoothing over the wool, almost like a caress. But a few heartbeats later found those same digits digging into the weave with such force, practically spelling out the anguish throbbing just beneath their skin's toughened surface. Still, I remained steadfast. I was obstinate, if nothing else. 

I was also a fool.

In the end, it was the tinge of apprehension darkening her usually luminous gaze that had me take a step back. Followed by another. Hope tracked every pace of my slow retreat, her damp eyes brimming with the emotion, her shoulders sagging from undisguised relief as I complied. She gave me this determined nod. Some form of affirmation. She refused to take me along to her doom. She meant to save me. And I would do her bidding. I owed her that much.

I left her behind ... and I ran.

  

 

* * * * *

 

 

**Dean O'Gorman**

_**Road from Boston, Colonial Massachusetts** _

_**10th of June, 1692** _

 

I have forsaken her. I have forsaken them all.

_Run. Never look back._

Like a coward, I have not stopped running ever since I turned my back on them. Though often have I looked behind, aggrieved by what I saw. I kept on moving. From known shorelines to stifling city streets, from open sea to foreign land. I traversed the vast expanse of an ocean, desperate to flee all the deaths. Needing to finally overcome the lingering nightmares. I should have known better and remembered to look ahead.

The sight is unmistakable, regardless of the dim moonlight glow filtering through the thick foliage. I should know as I have descried such macabre scenes before, hoping to never bear witness to the likes again.

Never put your faith in hope.

And so here I am, now, once more facing the horrifying capabilities of mankind. The irony of it all does not go unnoticed as I stare at the body, feeling an urge to laugh. Instead, I slide free of the saddle, stiff legs buckling under the weight of travel fatigue, and fumble through the motions of signing the cross before bowing my head in respect. Force of habit, I suppose. I do not believe myself to be of the particularly religious sort - not anymore - but I think that the deceased woman, whoever she may be, deserves the intended sentiment, at the very least.

The gallows tree is no fitting end, no matter the crime.

I falter in my steps as I lead the horse with its few saddlebags down the remaining stretch of visible road before darkness swallows my destination around the curve, beneath the hill and its tragic beacon. Fragments of memories assail my consciousness, effectively sending shivers of dread down the length of my spinal cord and licking across every vertebrae in silent warning. Perhaps I should not have come here, so far into the wild. While decades have passed since the earliest settlers first set foot in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, life in the New World remains one of hardship where everything is centered around the burdens of survival. It may be mostly English stock that colonized the area with their background of generations of English life and customs but can their standards of living be upheld in the harsh climate, both social and environmental, currently surrounding them? If talk about town can be believed, and considering what I have seen during my short stay in Boston, those who survived the migration overseas have become men and women of suffering fortitude.

Will I live to regret this move? As I glance up towards the condemned woman, so still in the windless cover of night, I cannot help but wonder if becoming an active player in colonial legislation is really something I desire for my future. Because even though I cannot see the convict's face from this distance, I know exactly what to expect for I have had the unfortunate luck to study the neck markings made by rope on a hanging victim. New beginning indeed! It almost feels like slipping back into a well-known pair of boots with all its miles of life experience etched into the worn soles - some of them best left indiscernible. Forgotten.

As it stands, I am familiar with the diagonal impressions - much like an inverted V - running around approximately halfway through the neck's circumference. I remember all too well the color of the skin, so pale in comparison to a death caused by asphyxiation. There would be no purple tongue protruding from the mouth. No sign of facial congestion. In a case of execution by hanging such as this one, the neck simply snaps on impact as the body drops so many feet. Immediate death. But death all the same.

I tear my gaze away from the sight and accelerate my pace. I need to get to the inn. Traveling alone after the sun has set already borders on recklessness. It would not do to have my carcass found along the road or in a field by a farmer come morning. Who knows what kind of wild beasts stalk these lands, looking for prey.

Or natives, even.

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

"Bonsoir, cher." A tall man with dark hair and mirthful eyes watches me from the other side of the bar while a soft giggle can be heard from somewhere behind me as something flies across the open space between us, catching the man upside the head, near his left temple. He scowls, but only for a moment as he picks up the projectile, a damp cloth, and starts dragging it over the countertop in circular motions, one thick eyebrow raised in question, his focus somewhere to my right.

"Must you make it sound so -," a female voice pauses and sighs, fondness clearly winning out over exasperation, before continuing, "Obscène? 'Cher' is a term of endearment. You cannot go about using it with total strangers."

I can feel those warm eyes raking over me even before I meet his gaze. The man's lips curl at the corners and then further, until I can see a glimpse of crooked teeth as he openly grins. "That so?"

The word 'roguish' immediately comes to mind.

"Oui." A young woman sidles into view, offering me a quick smile as she rounds the corner of the bar, fingers deftly working to loosen the ties of her apron. I follow her every step, admiring all the loveliness and grace giving life to such dulcet tones.

Slipping behind the counter, she twists her hands around the bundle of fabric, pulling it tight and then twisting it again, keeping her eyes downcast, projecting an air of innocence. "That is so. It would be indecent."

The man never saw the blow coming as she whips the apron, effectively smacking him across the thigh, the sound resounding over to this side of the bar. He lets out a howl for dramatic effect - surely it gave a good pinch but it could not have hurt that much -, attracting attention from the few patrons gathered near the hearth over to the other side of the room.

"Vixen," he accuses, already laughing. "Since when am I known to be of the 'proper' sort, besides?" 

Not waiting for an answer, he turns his attention back to me and asks in an irresistibly charming voice with a twinkle, "Welcome, stranger. What will it be then, mon ami?"

Nodding her approval, the woman gives his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, pride evident in every line of her bearing. "Much better, Jimmy." She folds her apron and retires it on a top shelf, having to stretch on the tip of her toes just to reach it. I am not a very tall man myself, yet I still stand a few inches above her head. She is very petite. Petite and quite beautiful. As she winks at me before sauntering towards a back room, out of sight, I wonder if she is promised to anyone. The barkeep's wife, perhaps?

"Well?" The barkeep - Jimmy - is waiting.

"Just rum. And lodgings, if you have any available."

"Plan on stayin' fer a while? Or just passin' through?" His hands are already reaching for both bottle and pewter cup.

Thoughts about the hanging victim resurface, unbidden. I try to mask a shudder with a casual shrug. "Not sure."

"Come a long way, I see. Boston?" Jimmy puts the cup in front of me and shakes his head, before I can answer his question. "Drink. Ye be needin' it." His voice is unexpectedly soft as he speaks in earnest. "Ye look like ye seen a ghost, lad. Only one explanation fer that."

Resting my elbows atop the bar, I hunch over my drink, allowing the weariness to fold out into the open. The day has been long, late evening heralding possibilities that I would rather not contemplate at present. Taking a couple of greedy swallows, I let the alcohol burn through any sound of disillusionment clawing its way up my throat. "This is not rum," I tell him, my own voice sounding raw.

"Thought ye might enjoy somethin' of better quality than that piss-poor excuse of a beverage the locals keep fussin' over."

If his snort is any indicator, I failed in hiding the incredulity from my face as I meet his gaze. The men occupying the only busy table in the cozy establishment seem oblivious to our discussion. Still. "Such words could be considered a serious offence if the innkeeper were to hear you pronounce them."

Jimmy bursts out laughing, an arrogant rumble that I find not offensive in the least. "I am the innkeeper." He extends his hand and I grasp it, returning the firm shake. "James Nesbitt, at yer service."

This warrants a smile and I offer him my best, considering my current state of exhaustion. "Dean O'Gorman, sir. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"O'Gorman, ye say? I recognized the accent but did not expect ye to be from the North. Unless the O'Gorman clan packed up and moved further South? Yer brogue is not as thick as mine and the rest of us Northerners."

There really is no way to explain the softening of my accent unless I wish to reveal the story in its entirety. Which I do not. Not to a stranger, no matter how friendly he may be. Though there is no point in avoiding or lying about some truths. "My family has been uprooted. If there are any O'Gormans left, you will not find them in Ireland." Or England, for that matter.

A long moment of silence follows my declaration and then James is leaning forward, grasping my forearm in a supportive gesture. Gone is the arrogance, the roguish smile, the twinkling eyes and the overall charm. He is all understanding and sympathy. And thankfully, he has enough tact to keep any sign of pity at bay.

I am finding it difficult to remain aloof around the man.

"I am sorry, lad." I can see nothing but kindness in his eyes. I nod, grateful.

"Drink up. Let me get yer things an' take 'em to yer room." Releasing my arm, he starts to turn but I stop him, latching on to his wrist. "James?"

"Yea?"

I meant to ask him. About the woman and the gallows tree. I needed to know the crime she committed to deserve such a sentence. But the words remain stuck, unable to pass my lips. "Thank you." I let go of him, instead wrapping my fingers around the cup and tipping it in his direction before taking a leisure sip. Savoring it, this time around. "It is good brandy."

James is already halfway towards the stairs, my saddlebags swung over his shoulders. "I know."

Our eyes meet across the room and some kind of understanding passes between us. Something I will need to give more consideration as to its meaning in the morning, when my mind feels less like a harbor for dense fog and confounding thoughts.

"Welcome to Salem, Dean."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks go out to Eowyn (eowynsmusings) for acting as my sounding board for this story adventure. And beta reader. Also, she is the talent behind any official art used as icon or banner (or whatnot) for this fic. Love you a whole bunch, Wyn! You are the F to my K.
> 
> Disclaimer (because I am old school that way): I do not know any of these talented actors nor do I presume anything by writing them into 'situations'. The only profit I make from this is that of enriching my already overzealous imagination.


End file.
